All Inclusive Resort
by dysprositos
Summary: Tony Stark has a big mouth, and sometimes it gets him in trouble. Tony finds himself reaping the rewards of his actions while confined to the Stonehearth Center-a behavioral health hospital. But the experience isn't all bad; it's fun to annoy the nurses and aggravate the psychiatrists, and the other patients aren't so bad either.
1. Chapter 1

I hate "insane asylum" fics. They're always unrealistic and terrible. But I just spent a week in the hospital, and I used to use fanfic to process things. I'm trying that now. This is just a preview; the real first chapter will be somewhat longer.

This is unedited and un-beta'd.

* * *

"This," Tony Stark enunciated clearly, "Is bullshit."

He was right, of course. He usually was-hazard of being a genius. It _was_ bullshit. But it was exactly the kind of trouble that his big fucking mouth tended to get him into. He shouldn't have been surprised.

And he wasn't surprised. He was pissed off. Because this was _bullshit._

"Sir," the woman sitting behind the desk said, "You can sign yourself in or we can have you court processed. It'll be easier if you sign yourself in, and you'll probably get out faster-seven to fourteen days, instead of twenty-one to thirty." She was patient, her tone bland, like she'd given this speech a thousand times

Probably, she had.

Tony's frown deepened and he crossed his arms across his chest. The thin hospital gown he was wearing felt out of place in this office, and he was keenly aware that he wasn't wearing any pants. It made him feel vulnerable, and he _hated_ feeling vulnerable. His voice was thus even more irritable when he replied, "I'm not signing myself into the nuthouse. I'm not crazy. I'm leaving." He tried to sound reasonable, sane. Normal.

He wasn't normal. He was a lot of things-billionaire, playboy, drug addict, strapped down to a gurney. Normal wasn't on the list.

The woman behind the desk sighed. "You have been petitioned by a mental health care provider, you do not have the right to refuse treatment at this time."

"That is _bullshit_!" Tony exclaimed, going quickly from 'irritated' to 'angry.' "This whole thing is a misunderstanding!" His head was starting to pound. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd woken up in the ER at the hospital after they'd hit him with the Narcan. Since that oh-so-glorious awakening, he'd had to talk to about four billion people including the goddamn social worker who'd landed him in this mess. He didn't want to talk anymore. He just wanted to get out of here and score. Anything to make the headache stop. But that apparently wasn't going to happen.

Taking his extended silence for a thoughtful pause, the woman behind the desk offered, "We offer drug rehabilitation services in addition to psychiatric care." She paused, then added,"If you sign yourself in, you'll get off the gurney and get your pants back faster."

And that...that was an intriguing proposition. Not the drug rehab shit-he'd been through rehab more times than he'd care to count. But getting his pants back? That sounded _amazing._ And once they got him started on the buprenorphine, the headache would quit on him. So Tony inclined his head. "You know what? Fine. Give me a pen."

She handed him one. Awkwardly, as he was still strapped to the gurney the EMTs had wheeled him in on, Tony leaned over to where the forms were sitting on a chest-level receptionist's desk. He signed his name in the highlighted spots, then tossed the pen aside. "There. We good?"

"Not quite yet," the woman said. "But these fine young men can let you down now and we can start getting you settled."

Tony sighed as the EMTs unbuckled the straps across his chest. This was going to be one long, stupid week.

* * *

The intake process itself wasn't too bad, except for the part where he had to get naked in front of a male staff member for a body scan. It was familiar-rehab kind of went the same way-but Tony preferred stripping down for more pleasurable activities. At least after that invasion of privacy he'd finally gotten his own clothes back. The hospital had even washed them for him, which Tony was thankful for-last time he'd seen that particular gray Henley and pair of jeans, they'd been covered in vomit.

The facility at which he found himself was the quaintly named 'Stonehearth Center: A Behavioral Health Hospital." There was, in fact, a stone hearth-the lobby of the hospital, which he'd seen briefly as he was walked up to his floor, had a cozy forest cabin getaway vibe going on. The treatment floors themselves, though, were less cozy. Not austere by any stretch of the imagination, but it was clear that the space was designed to be functional.

And safe. The pipes in the bathroom had a protective plastic cover over them. The doors had no locks. The furniture was nailed down. Small things, but Tony found them distasteful reminders of what he'd signed up for.

He'd arrived on the floor shortly after noon, and most of the other patients had gone down to the cafeteria for lunch. Tony was thus able to explore his room in relative privacy, for which he was thankful. All of his billions of dollars hadn't been able to buy him a private suite, a hazard of how he'd come to be here, he imagined, and so he was sharing a room with another guy. From the sparse number of personal belongings in the room, the guy seemed fairly normal. There were a few books on the nightstand, all with "Stonehearth Library" written on them. There were a few shirts and pairs of pants folded up on the shelves on his side of the room. The mental health aide who'd showed Tony around the ward had told him that his roommate's name was Bruce.

After exploring his room, Tony had made a beeline for the phone. He'd needed to call his assistant, see if she could get him some more clothes and some personal hygiene stuff. If he was going to be stuck in this place for a week or two, he wasn't going to wear the same clothes the whole time and he sure as hell wasn't going to stink.

Pepper Potts, who'd been working for Tony for almost ten years, was not impressed with him, as it turned out. No, she wasn't impressed at all.

"I thought you were dead!" She'd practically screamed at him, interrupting his greeting.

"Uh, yeah," Tony had replied, his brain abandoning him for the moment. "I'm sorry about that, it won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't!" Pepper said, still at top volume. "Because I'm quitting! I have a job offer back in New York and I'm taking it! I can't take the stress any more, I can't keep covering up for you-"

"Pep," Tony had interrupted, trying not to let his terror at the idea of her leaving him show in his voice, "Look. I'm in rehab. I'm going to clean up my act, I promise."

"Right," She'd scoffed. "Like the last ten times?"

Had it really been ten times? Tony had counted back. Yep, it had been. Shit. "No, for real this time. Please. Give me another chance."

There had been a long pause, and then Pepper had sighed. "Fine. One last chance. Where do I need to bring your clothes, Mr. Stark?"

Ouch. The Mr. Stark had hurt. "It's this place called the Stonehearth Center, not sure where it is exactly, I didn't get a lot of say in how I got here." Understatement of the year.

"Okay. I'll see what I can do." She'd paused again, and Tony had heard keys clacking. Then, surprised, Pepper had said, "Tony, Stonehearth is a mental health facility, not a rehab facility."

Like Tony hadn't known that. "Yeah, Pep, long story. Can you please just bring me some clothes? Shampoo?" He'd wanted to add 'and some oxy,' but he hadn't thought that would go over well.

"I don't even want to know," Pepper had said. "I'll be there as soon as I can get free."

"Thanks," Tony had said before he hung up. His life might be a disaster, but Pepper was as consistent as ever. At least, she would be if he actually got his life together, she'd stick around.

Wait. That meant...he _actually_ had to get his life together.

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, and welcome to the real first chapter of All Inclusive Resort. It's been a long time since I've done any writing, so I'm pretty rusty. I'd like to thank wardinpanties over on Tumblr for giving this a looksie for me.**

 **Warnings for mentions of drug use, suicide.**

* * *

"This," Tony Stark enunciated clearly, "is bullshit."

He was right, of course. He usually was-hazard of being a genius. It _was_ bullshit. But it was exactly the kind of trouble that his big fucking mouth tended to get him into. He shouldn't have been surprised.

And he wasn't surprised. He was pissed off. Because this was _bullshit._

"Sir," the woman sitting behind the desk said, "You can sign yourself in or we can have you court processed. It'll be easier if you sign yourself in, and you'll probably get out faster-seven to fourteen days, instead of twenty-one to thirty." She was patient, her tone bland, like she'd given this speech a thousand times

Probably, she had.

Tony's frown deepened and he crossed his arms across his chest. The thin hospital gown he was wearing felt out of place in this office, and he was keenly aware that he wasn't wearing any pants. It made him feel vulnerable, and he _hated_ feeling vulnerable. His voice was thus even more irritable when he replied, "I'm not signing myself into the nuthouse. I'm not crazy. I'm leaving." He was saying this for what felt like the thousandth time, but still he tried to sound reasonable, sane. Normal.

He wasn't normal. He was a lot of things-genius, billionaire, playboy, drug addict, strapped down to a gurney. Normal wasn't on the list on a good day, and this was definitely not a good day.

The woman behind the desk sighed. "You have been petitioned by a mental health care provider, you do not have the right to refuse treatment at this time. If you try to leave, we'll have you picked up by the police."

"That is _bullshit_!" Tony exclaimed, going quickly from 'irritated' to 'angry.' "This whole thing is a misunderstanding!" His head was starting to pound. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd woken up in the ER at the hospital after they'd hit him with the Narcan. Since that oh-so-glorious awakening, he'd had to talk to about four billion people including the goddamn social worker who'd landed him in this mess. He didn't want to talk anymore-his mouth just got him in trouble. He just wanted to get out of here and back to the oxycontin in his bedroom dresser drawer. But that apparently wasn't going to happen.

Taking his extended silence for a thoughtful pause, the woman behind the desk offered, "We offer drug rehabilitation services in addition to psychiatric care, so you would be taken care of." She paused, then added,"If you sign yourself in, you'll get off the gurney and get your pants back faster."

And that...that was an intriguing proposition. Not the drug rehab shit-he'd been through rehab more times than he'd care to count. But getting his pants back? That sounded _amazing._ And hey, he'd done rehab before. It wasn't the worst thing in the world. And at the very least, once they got him started on the buprenorphine, this fucking headache would quit. So Tony inclined his head. "You know what? Fine. Give me a pen."

She handed him one. Awkwardly, as he was still strapped to the gurney the EMTs had wheeled him in on, Tony leaned over to where the forms were sitting on a chest-level receptionist's desk. He signed his name in the highlighted spots, then tossed the pen aside. "There. We good?"

"Not quite yet," the woman said. "But these fine young men can let you down now and we can start getting you settled."

Tony sighed as the EMTs unbuckled the straps across his chest. This was going to be one long, stupid week.

Or two.

* * *

The intake process itself wasn't too bad, except for the part where he had to get naked in front of a male staff member for a body scan. It was familiar-rehab kind of went the same way-but Tony preferred stripping down for more pleasurable activities. At least after that invasion of privacy he'd finally gotten his own clothes back. The hospital or someone had even washed them for him, which Tony was thankful for-the last time he'd seen that particular gray Henley and pair of jeans had been shortly before he'd passed out, and they'd been covered in vomit.

The facility at which Tony found himself was the quaintly named 'Stonehearth Center: A Behavioral Health Hospital.' There was, in fact, a stone hearth-the lobby of the hospital, which Tony had seen briefly through a small window in a door as he was walked up to his floor, had a cozy forest cabin getaway vibe going on. The treatment floors themselves, though, were less cozy. Not austere by any stretch of the imagination; the furniture was soft and tasteful, the colors like a muted autumn afternoon. There just weren't a lot of frills. So not austere, no, but it was clear that the space was designed to be functional.

And safe. The pipes in the bathroom had a protective plastic cover over them. The doors had no locks. The furniture was nailed down. Small things, but Tony found them distasteful reminders of what he'd signed up for.

He'd arrived on the floor shortly after noon, during which time most of the other patients had gone down to the cafeteria for lunch. Tony was thus able to explore his room in relative privacy, for which he was thankful. All of his billions of dollars hadn't been able to buy him a private suite, a hazard of how he'd come to be here, he imagined, and so he was sharing a room with another guy. From the sparse number of personal belongings in the room, the guy seemed fairly normal. There were a few books on the nightstand, all with "Stonehearth Library" written on them. There were a few shirts and pairs of pants folded up on the shelves on his side of the room, nothing outrageous, lots of earth tones. The mental health aide who'd showed Tony around the ward had told him that his roommate's name was Bruce and that 'he's a pretty chill guy...mostly.'

Whatever that meant.

After exploring his room, Tony had made a beeline for the phone. He'd needed to call his assistant, see if she could get him some more clothes and some personal hygiene stuff. It wasn't the first time he'd abruptly found himself in rehab, and Pepper had always come through for him. If he was going to be stuck in this place for a week or two, he wasn't going to wear the same clothes the whole time and he sure as hell wasn't going to stink. He was Tony Stark and he had standards.

Low standards, sure, but standards nonetheless.

As it turned out, Pepper Potts, who'd been working for Tony for almost ten years, was not impressed with him. No, she wasn't impressed at _all_.

"I thought you were dead!" She'd practically screamed at him, interrupting his greeting. "Where are you? The hospital said you'd been discharged! And you didn't even call! Too busy getting more drugs?"

"Uh," Tony had replied, his brain abandoning him for the moment. "No, no drugs. It's a long story. I guess you're the one who got me to the hospital?"

"Who else would find you passed out on your bed in a puddle of vomit?" Pepper asked acidly.

Tony cringed. "Sorry about that. It won't happen again."

"Damn right it won't!" Pepper said, still at top volume. "Because I'm quitting! I have a job offer back in New York and I'm taking it! I can't take the stress any more, I can't keep taking care of you, covering up for you-"

"Pep," Tony had interrupted, trying not to let his sudden terror at the idea of her leaving him show in his voice, "Look. I'm in rehab. I'm going to clean up my act, I promise."

"Right," She'd scoffed. "Like the last ten times?"

Had it really been ten times? Tony had counted back. Yep, it had been. Shit. "No, for real this time. Please. Give me another chance."

There had been a long pause, and then Pepper had sighed. "Fine. I shouldn't. I don't know why I am. But one last chance. Where are you, Mr. Stark?"

Ouch. The Mr. Stark had hurt. "It's this place called the Stonehearth Center, not sure where it is exactly, I didn't get a lot of say in how I got here." Understatement of the year.

"Okay. I'll see what I can do." She'd paused again, and Tony had heard keys clacking as she presumably typed the name into Google. A few seconds later, surprised, Pepper had said, "Tony, Stonehearth is a mental health facility, not a rehab facility."

Like Tony hadn't known that. "Yeah, Pep, long story, like I said. Can you please just bring me some clothes? Shampoo?" He'd wanted to add 'and some oxy,' but he hadn't thought that would go over well given how she'd found him. She'd probably quit on the spot.

"I don't even want to know," Pepper had said. "I'll be there as soon as I can get free."

"Thanks," Tony had said before he hung up, relieved that she hadn't quit. He didn't know why, but the idea of losing her had stabbed him like shrapnel to the heart. She was an amazing assistant, sure, but PAs were a dime a dozen in LA.

Well, whatever. Tony had shrugged mentally, unwilling to dwell. His life might be a disaster, but Pepper was as consistent as ever. At least, she would be if he actually got his life together. If he did that, she'd stick around.

Wait. That meant...he _actually_ had to get his life together.

Shit.

* * *

At around 12:45, the other patients got back from lunch, and Tony got to meet his roommate.

Tony was lying on his bed, legs crossed, hands behind his head. He had, in fact, almost managed to drift off to sleep-he'd been started on buprenorphine ASAP and he was feeling less shitty to the point he thought he might actually be able to rest. But he'd been jolted awake by someone shuffling into the room and letting out what could only be described as a disappointed, "Oh."

"Oh."

Tony opened his eyes. Then he sat up. "Oh?" he asked. "Were you not expecting me?"

The guy standing in the middle of the room, looked...disappointed. "Uh, sorry," he said quickly. "No. I wasn't. It's just, uh, I was getting used to having the room to myself." He gave a tight smile and then held out his hand. "Bruce Banner."

Tony raised his eyebrows and shook his hand. "Tony Stark."

Bruce's eyes widened minutely. Then he said, "I thought you looked familiar."

"Same," Tony said. "Well, not exactly. I know your name. Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled."

Bruce grinned. "I didn't know you were a fan.I've been following your work on advanced prosthetics. Really cool stuff you're doing."

"I know," Tony said. Then, just for conversation's sake, he asked, "So what brings you to Stonehearth?"

Bruce froze. It was then that Tony realized that was actually a really personal question. "Shit. Sorry, man, you don't have to answer that."

Relaxing minutely, Bruce gave a stiff shrug. "It's not a big deal I guess. We're all here for something, right? Me, I was going to blow my brains out but my girlfriend called the police when I mentioned it." He gave a wry smile. "How inconsiderate of her, right?"

The bluntness was kind of a shock. "Uh..." Tony replied, sounding every bit the genius he supposedly was. "I'm sorry." Because what else did you say to that?

Bruce shrugged again, this time a little half-shrug that managed to be both self-deprecating and reconciliatory. "Don't be. I'm still alive, I'm getting help. I've realized the 'error of my ways.' What about you? What brings you here?"

Tony chuckled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Bruce countered. "Come on, tit for tat."

"Okay," Tony said. How to start? "So, you might not know this, but I do a lot of drugs."

Bruce raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Really? I had no idea. The media certainly never gave me that impression, repeatedly and with photographic evidence."

Tony frowned. "I assume you're referring to the picture-"

"Of you snorting cocaine off a stripper's breasts, yes. That picture."

Tony shook his head. Was there anyone in the world who _hadn't_ seen that picture? "Whatever. Anyway. So, I do a lot of drugs. People might even call me an addict." He stopped, remembering his conversation with Pepper. He had to get his life together or she was going to move to New York. "Because I am an addict, I guess."

"No shit," Bruce said, finally crossing the room to sit down on his bed. He crossed his legs, almost folding in on himself.

"Shut up and let me finish," Tony said, shooting Bruce a glare. Bruce put up his hands defensively, and Tony continued. "I do a lot of drugs. I really, really, do a lot of oxy. And the other night, I kind of overdid it."

"Yeah?" Bruce asked. "What happened?"

Tony shrugged. "My assistant apparently found me passed out or something, called an ambulance. They took me to the ER where they gave me naloxone. Woke me right up, and let me tell you, _that_ was not fun. After I was stable or whatever, I had about a thousand visitors. And one of them was this social worker."

"Okay...?" Bruce said, unsure where this was going.

Tony rolled his eyes. "This is so stupid, I can't even tell it without getting annoyed. So this social worker comes in and she's like 'were you trying to kill yourself, because you almost died.' And I'm like 'no of course I wasn't trying to kill myself I was just having some fun.' So she changes the topic and we talk for a bit, she wants to know about my 'supports' and the history of my drug use and my daddy issues and finally after like twelve years she asks this really random question. She asks, 'If you _were_ trying to kill yourself, how would you do it?' And me and my big mouth said-"

"You didn't," Bruce interjected, eyes wide, clearly on the verge of laughter. "Tell me you didn't say it."

"I did," Tony confirmed. "I said, 'If I was trying to kill myself, I'd probably overdose on oxy.'"

Bruce groaned. "Oh my god, you're such an idiot!"

"I know!" Tony agreed. "But I wasn't thinking! So, you can see where it went from there. Clearly, according to my own mouth, I was suicidal or whatever. The social worker petitioned me and here I am."

"I can't believe you actually said that. Aren't you supposed to be a genius?" Bruce said, mirth evident on his face.

"Stop laughing at my pain," Tony said. "Yeah. I actually said that. I can't believe it either. In my defense, I _had_ just overdosed and been given the Narcan Sunrise. I wasn't thinking, like I said."

"Fair enough," Bruce said with a nod. "But seriously. _Were_ you suicidal? Because you're smart enough to know what a fatal dose of oxy looks like."

Tony frowned. "Of course I wasn't suicidal!" He paused. "No offense or anything but like, I love life."

"Why would that offend me?"

Tony was saved from having to try to dislodge his foot from his mouth by a mental health aide poking his head in the door. "Good to see you two get along, but it's time for group."

Bruce immediately stood up, but Tony remained seated. "I'm not going to any 'groups,'" he said. "I don't need therapy. I just need buprenorphine and time."

"Uh huh, sure," the MHA said. "Whatever you say, man, but if you go to group you get outta here faster."

At that, Tony practically leapt out of bed. "Why didn't you say so? Group sounds amazing. Let's go, Bruce." And with that, he marched out of his room.

He had to stop in the hallway, though, because he actually had no idea where he was going.

"Come on," Bruce said, leading the way. "Afternoon group is usually art therapy. I'll show you where we meet."

Art therapy. Tony scoffed internally. What was the point of art therapy? He didn't need any therapy at all, let alone _art_ therapy.

But then it occurred to him: art therapy could be _fun_. Not because art was fun-Tony preferred robotics to art any day-but because this could be a prime opportunity to Fuck With People. After robotics, Fucking With People was one of his absolute favorite ways to pass the time. He'd actually been kicked out of rehab twice for screwing around. Maybe if he tried hard enough, they'd kick him out of here, too.

And that idea put a little bounce in his step. Tony smiled.

Art therapy was going to be _awesome_.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Please review if you're so inclined, it makes me happy.**


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